Just at this time Mrs. Bellasys and her daughter arrived in Paris.  It was Flora’s debut there, and she had an immense success.  The jeunesse doree of the Chaussee d’Antin and the cavaliers of the Faubourg thronged about her, emulously enthusiastic.  Her repartees and sarcasms were quoted like Talleyrand’s.  They never wearied in raving over her perfections, taking them in a regular catalogue—­from her magnificent eyes and hair, that flashed back the light from its smooth bands like clouded steel, down to the small brodequins of white satin, which it was her fancy to wear instead of the ball-room chaussure of ordinary mortals.  The intrigues to secure her for a waltz or a mazurka displayed diplomatic talent enough to have set half a dozen German principalities and powers by the ears.  The succession of admirers was never broken; as fast as one dropped off, killed by her coldness or caprice, another stepped into his place.  It reminded one of the old “Die-hards” at Waterloo, filling up their squares torn and ravaged by the pelting grape-shot.

Here, as elsewhere, she pursued her favorite amusement remorselessly.  Fallowfield called it “her cutting-out expeditions.”  She used to watch till a mother and daughter had, between them, secured a good matrimonial prize, and then employ her fascinations on the captured one—­seldom without effect—­so as to steal him out of their hands.

Do you remember Waterton’s story of the osprey?  The hard-working bird, by dint of perseverance, has brought up a good fish.  Just as it emerges from the water, there is heard a flap and a whistle of mighty pinions, and from his watch-tower on the cliff far above swoops down the great sea-eagle.  The poor osprey a beau crier, it must drop its booty, and the strong marauder sails off with a slow and dignified flight, to discuss it in the wood at his leisure.  The only fault in the parallel was that Flora always dropped the prey with the coolest disdain when it was once fairly within her clutches.  How the match-makers did hate her!  What vows for her discomfiture must have been breathed into bouquets held up to conceal the angry flush of disappointment or the paleness of despair!

I own this practice of hers did not raise her in my opinion.  I can not think so hardly as it is the fashion to do of the junior and working members, at least, of the manoeuvring guild.  It is not an elevating or very creditable profession, certainly, but it seems such a disagreeable one that none would take it up from choice.  The chief fault, at all events, lies with the trainers; the jockeys (poor little things!) only ride to orders; and, by the way, I think they generally err in not knowing how to wait, and in making the running too strong at first.

As I meet, year after year, one of these—­to whom the seed sown in London ball-rooms and German watering-places had produced nothing yet but those tiresome garlands of the vestal—­I look curiously to see how she wears, thinking of the courtier’s answer to Louis XIV. when the latter asked if he was looking older:  “Sire, I see some more victories written on your forehead.”  It is more defeats that one can read so plainly on poor Fanny Singleton’s.